Woo Me
by happybeckett
Summary: He's unsure as to whether or not it's a date when they marathon John Woo movies together. Always AU.
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: This morning, I was filling out more student loan documents than I can count. 'Ownership' is a bit of a touchy subject at the moment. Anyway, I do not own these characters._

 _A/N: Hey, look, I'm back! Hopefully, this fic will repair any terrible inconsistencies I've had in the past. Though I normally write very long chapters and update next to never, I'm going to write this one in shorter chapters posted once a week on Mondays. Of course, all of that could be subjected to change, but I don't plan on updating less frequently than once a week. Whew. This is a change, but I'm hoping it will work out. As always, comments are greatly appreciated._

* * *

It's not a date, he repeated to himself as he squeezed toothpaste onto his toothbrush. Though he and Kate had planned a ten-hour lineup of films to watch, it wasn't a date. He brought the brush shakily into his mouth and scrubbed. In the back of his mind, a nagging voice reminded him that she was close to ready, as she'd told him after they'd broken their previous case; she had gone through therapy, had worked to heal, and soon, she would be ready to face her mother's case - and everything that the case had taken from her - with a stronger, more neutral mind. However, this wasn't a date, and he wasn't trying to make sure that his breath smelled pleasant before this not-date, and what exactly was he supposed to wear? As he spit and went to wash his mouth out, he checked his watch; ten in the evening had just passed, and she'd said that she would be there around ten-fifteen, so in theory, he could wear pajamas, but _should_ he wear pajamas? No, that would be disrespectful, he decided even though the prospect of putting on jeans seemed to be all too much.

Rubbing his forehead as he left the bathroom, he let out a deep breath; for a not-date, he felt as though this required more effort than it absolutely needed to. In theory, they were two friends getting together and having a movie marathon. Friends did that together all the time. However, Beckett wasn't exactly a friend, simultaneously more and less than one, and at that point, he couldn't be bothered with labels. Going into his dresser in his bedroom, he took out a pair of worn-in jeans, switched from his dress pants to the new pants. Shedding his shirt, he went to put on...oh, goodness, he didn't know what to put on. Was a graphic tee too informal, a button-down too formal, a flannel just right? Almost gawking, he hadn't a clue as to what would be proper for this not-date. Normally, he would ask someone else going to an event what they were going to wear if he needed help deciding, but he couldn't simply text Beckett and ask her if she'd put a calculated effort into her appearance for the night. Maybe he was going to all of this trouble just to have her show up in sweats, a tee, and no bra. No bra. Oh, goodness. He didn't need those kinds of thoughts right then, not before this not-date and surely not while he stood looking into his closet and staring at his shirts as he held a flummoxed gaze.

Scoffing himself, he went for a graphic tee anyway, one for some science fiction television show that had been canceled too soon. Lastly, he put on extra deodorant, and as he placed the deodorant back in its normal spot, he began a staring contest with something that he couldn't quite muster the courage to use. Suddenly, he felt as though he were in a western shootout, where two opponents stared each other down as a tumbleweed moved across the red dust in the distance and a _waow waow waow_ tune played. They both held up their guns, tipped their leather-brimmed cowboy hats to each other, shook the spurs on their boots, spit from behind the red bandanas that covered their mouths. As they both took their stance, they squared up to each other and prepared to shoot.

However, there was no face-off going on, and this wasn't a Western movie, so instead of staring down a human opponent, he was staring down a bottle of cologne. As he came out of the imagining, he heard the doorbell ring, and cursing in his mind, he checked his hair in the mirror, blew against his hand in order to make sure his breath was fresh. Then, he abandoned all better judgement and spritzed a modest amount of cologne into the air and walked through the cloud of it. He walked out of his bedroom, closed the door, and checked the living room before he opened the front door. That afternoon, he'd hung up the shower-curtain screen, and the projector was ready with the five DVDs sitting alongside it. He'd left the lights dimmed but nonetheless on, and on the couch, a multitude of moderately-spaced pillows lay. In a bowl on the kitchen counter was homemade caramel popcorn that he'd made the night beforehand thinking that he would be alone. Though it wasn't enough to comfortably share, he was glad that he could at least somewhat entertain her. He'd figured that she might want wine, so the glasses were already out. Overall, he'd prepared nicely for the not-date, gave himself a mental pat-on-the-back for his efforts.

Again, the doorbell rang, a little more pointedly this time, and then, he opened the door, was greeted by a soft smile on her lips. Momentarily, he paused, took her in; her hair was half-back in a clip, her makeup was gone, and she wore a slouchy heather-grey long-sleeve with a pair of jeans. As she held a leather purse on her shoulder and a bottle of wine in her arms, she glanced up toward him, their height difference much more noticeable because she wasn't wearing heels. There was something so inviting about her, an aura that made him want to kiss her cheek and sit down to eat dinner with her as they discussed their days. With the crinkle of her eyes as she smiled ever-so-lightly, he saw images of making her laugh while they sipped wine on the couch, their bodies hardly drunk but still a little tipsy. Though they were far from it, he could imagine her leaning against his shoulder as they started their second or third movie. He could imagine her falling asleep on his shoulder, and consequently, he could imagine carrying her to bed so that she would be alert in the morning.

But this wasn't a date, and she was beginning to look sheepish as he stared her down, so he shook those imaginings from his mind, motioned for her to come in.

"How was Alexis' speech?" she asked as she toed off her shoes next to his own by the door. Walking in, she went toward the kitchen counter, where the two wine glasses already sat. "I brought Pinot Noir. Want to uncork it?"

That was too many questions, and he still had the front door open as she glanced back at him, and because her back was to him, his eyes wandered down, and...oh, goodness, what had she just asked?

"Sure," Castle gave.

Closing the door, he walked over to meet her in the kitchen, where she'd set her bag down along with the wine. He went into a drawer, grabbed a corkscrew, and took to the bottle, uncorking it with a practiced ease. Because they were in for a long night, he poured them both only half a glass - there would be plenty of time if they wanted more - and went into the cupboard for some small bowls. Alongside him, she'd gone over to see the caramel corn, had smiled just a little but at the sight of it.

"Is this homemade?" she asked as he grabbed two bowls and set them on the counter.

He nodded twice.

"Alexis' recipe, my cooking," he explained. "You can't watch movies without popcorn, and there's no better popcorn than caramel corn."

He passed her a bowl, which she took with ease. When he began to fill his with food, she joined in.

"So," he asked, glancing over to her, "should we start with _Hand of Death_ or _The Killer?_ "

"Early or popular?" she asked, considering the statement. " _Hand of Death_ seems as though it would be better toward the middle, but _The Killer_ demands a fair introduction."

"Which one, then?"

She bit her lip, decidedly said, " _Hand of Death._ "

In all honestly, he hadn't planned out an order, but he wanted to hear her choice. Even though this wasn't a date. It wasn't a date at all.

"Well, if you'd like to come over to the couch, I can start warming up the projector."

"Would you mind if I headed to the bathroom first?" she asked.

"No, not at all," he said. "The closest one is in the bedroom, straight through the office and to the back."

"Great. Thanks."

As he walked with his glass and his bowl over to the couch, she paused in the kitchen. Though he didn't look back, he wondered why she hadn't headed straight over, but he brushed the thought off as he placed his glass and bowl on the coffee-table. While she walked by and headed toward the office, he began to turn the projector on, took the DVD out of its case. As the projector heated up, he went back into the kitchen to grab her glass and bowl, but he paused as he held them both in his hands. Her purse still sat there, but now, it was open, her wallet and phone seeming to look up at him. However, he hadn't expected to see little green and yellow packages among the contents of her purse. Though he figured that he shouldn't be, he felt endeared by the fact that she was on her period while they were on what wasn't a date. He scoffed himself for being charmed by it; there was nothing charming about menstruation, nothing at all, and from his experiences in a household of women, he knew that a ten pm movie while someone was on their period was something usually done alone in the wonderful silence of one's own bedroom with a hot pack over one's stomach and an ibuprofen on the bedside table. Maybe she was comfortable enough with him to have him see her on one of those kinds of nights, when her body hurt and her mind reminisced on the previous week's comparative bliss.

Or maybe menstruation was something that a uterus, among other parts, carried out once a month, and maybe it was a normal, completely natural occurrence for which no one could control the timing. That night, she had hers, and he had absolutely no business being charmed by it, absolutely none. After he brought her glass and bowl over to the coffee-table and placed them a moderate, chaste distance from himself, she emerged from the office, greeted him with a quiet grin as she sat down on the couch and picked up her glass.

Picking up the remote, he started the film; she took a sip of her wine, brought the bowl of popcorn onto her lap, rested her feet up on the coffee-table as though this were her own home. Then, he reminded himself that he couldn't think in terms of _her own home_ when it came to the loft, for that sparked imaginings. He could imagine her coats in his closet, a drawer of her things next to the drawers of his. Backtracking, he could imagine her staying over mostly-platonically, when they'd been on a date or two and had maybe kissed once, and she would end up alone in the guest room, and he would end up alone in his bedroom, and both of them would go to sleep smiling over whatever sappy goodnight statements they'd each made. When the time came, he could imagine them all sitting down to dinner, his immediate family, hers, and the one that they'd begun sharing many years beforehand, and having them both be together as fully-known significant others. He could imagine them fighting and then his consequently having to sleep on the couch. He could imagine the look of surprise on her face as she came out pajama-clad to the kitchen on Sunday morning only to find him making waffles, eggs, and bacon for breakfast.

But, he reminded himself, they weren't together, and the foot of distance between them fairly loudly explained that, and she didn't seem to want the evening to be anything other than friendly, not that he had hoped it would go a more romantic way. After all, it wasn't a date. Letting out a long breath, he sunk into the couch as he watched the beginning of the movie. If his mind was already so filled with her, then it was going to be a long night.

Then, she let out an almost sultry moan, said, "Oh, God, Castle. This caramel corn is _amazing_."

It was going to be a _really_ long night.


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: I'm reuploading a revised version of this because people didn't seem to like the angle I was taking with this story. It was a risky chapter to begin with, being that I took a bit of a step back from where the characters were during the series, but personally, I felt as though Castle and Beckett hadn't worked through certain issues enough, so I wrote it anyway; later chapters gave better context. However, I'm not about to write something that people don't enjoy reading simply because I want to write it that way. Though I don't want to be seen as a pushover who writes only what others demand, I don't want to be seen as someone who doesn't respect readers more. I'm thankful for comments and criticisms, and after these revisions, I hope that this takes a direction that is more true to the characters and more interesting to read. Again, I'll be updating again next Monday and then every Monday and Thursday from then until this piece is completed._

* * *

"But it must be hard, you know? He pays his respects to all those that were lost, yet there he is, all alone, the one survivor of the terrible event. It must be hard to carry that weight on your shoulders."

"Yeah," she said, nodding. "It must be."

They'd migrated from the couch to the kitchen after the first movie had finished; while he'd grabbed her a glass of water she'd asked for, he'd started commenting on the movie. Passing her the glass as she sat on one of the island stools, he went to take a seat alongside her. Though he'd finished his bowl of popcorn, hers was half-full; they'd both emptied their wine glasses. _The Killer_ was up next, but after the first movie, they'd both wanted to get up and take a break before starting the second.

"You never answered my question about Alexis' speech," she said after she took a sip of water. "How was it?"

Smiling softly to himself, Castle said, "Perfect. It was a great balance of inspirational and reminiscent. She did a wonderful job."

"I'm glad to hear it," Beckett said while she canted her body towards his ever-so-slightly; being the expert of subtext that he was, he noticed. "Is she off celebrating now?"

"Yes, at a shindig with some of her now-previous classmates," he said blissfullly. "Mother went to the Hamptons, Alexis went to a party, and I stayed here."

"You're really holding up the wild-child image, aren't you?" she joked.

Humorlessly, he laughed, admitted, "At least I have company. I'd figured that I would be doing this alone."

"Well, I'm glad to join you, Castle," she said. "It's nice for us to feel normal again."

He paused.

"Normal?" he questioned.

Her grip tightened around her glass.

"Things have just been... _off_ between us recently," she said, her gaze down. "However, it feels as though things are going back to normal again."

"Is that a good thing?"

Bittersweetly smiling to herself, she gave, "I hope so."

She took another sip of water, and meanwhile, he wondered if he should tell her that he knew she had lied. However, he didn't want to ruin any normalcy that he may have started to recreate; if he strayed cautiously once more, then he doubted that she would stick around, and as he checked his watch, he saw that it was merely nearing midnight, so the night had plenty of time for deeper conversation. He didn't want her to leave, so he refused to give her a reason to.

"Want to start on the next one?" he asked as he motioned for them to go back over to the couch.

"Sure," she shrugged as she stood up, took the water glass with her.

As they both went to sit back down, she left the glass on a coaster on the coffee-table, and then, she reached out for a blanket on the back of the couch. To her surprise, he reached for the blanket as well. Locking gazes, they looked to each other, their eyes asking.

"Sorry," he gave as he let go of the blanket went to head upstairs.

Watching from behind him, she asked, "Where are you going?"

"The guest room," he explained. "There's some extra linens in there."

"We can share this one."

At that, he stopped on the steps, looked back to her as he tried to school his features. Had she actually said that they could share a blanket, a tiny throw blanket? He'd tried to be cautious and merely friendly toward the not-date, but with a statement like that, he wondered how she had foreseen the night going. That morning, she'd held a lighter aura than usual, and after the previous case, he knew that she'd done hard work in order to live in such a way; maybe they could become something more as a result. However, he didn't want to push her too far, so he decided to keep his caution with him for the rest of the night, no matter where the night went.

Sitting down a careful distance from her on the couch, he watched as she moved closer to him, brushed the throw out over his legs. Though their thighs weren't touching, he could feel the warmth of her legs next to his. Her right arm was against his left, their bodies almost shoulder-to-shoulder. To him, the touch was foreign but enchanting; though part of him could imagine becoming accustomed to such a touch, another part of him couldn't imagine ever being accustomed to something so achingly comfortable yet oddly unfamiliar. Worst of all, she was close enough to him that he could breathe her in, could take in the scents of freshly-ground coffee and lavender, a relaxing yet enticing mix.

He wished he had another blanket, yet at the same time, he was terribly glad that he didn't.

With the _The Killer_ already in the player, all he needed to do was start the film, so he pressed play on the remote and relaxed back into the couch. However, he couldn't fully relax, not with her so close. With every move she made, he felt his body respond. She reached for the glass of water, and as a result, he felt her knee against his, so he took a deep breath, tried not to show how greatly a single touch could affect him. Ten minutes into the movie, she had her feet up next to his on the coffee-table, so his gaze drifted to her painted toes next to his socked ones, and he could imagine capturing that moment in a portrait, the beauty of it astonishing despite its simplicity. Though he figured that watching a film as bloody as _The Killer_ would stifle such imaginings, he quite apparently was wrong. Letting out a deep breath, he tried to no avail to focus on the film.

Then, of course, she moved, and he felt the shift in energy, so he glanced to her, saw that they were facing each other, their noses and lips so close together; he held his breath.

"Is everything okay?" she asked, a silent and casual honesty in her eyes.

"Yeah," he said and then turned his gaze back to the screen. Someone was shooting someone else. He could focus on that instead of on the way her eyes looked against the grey of her shirt. Oh, no, her eyes shone whenever she wore the color...

"Castle, something's up," she said, and then, she reached over, took the remote, and paused the film. "Tell me what's going on."

"You see, Ah Jong just-"

"Not in the movie."

Turning back to her, he met her gaze. She looked at him with an understated honesty, as though she truly wanted to know what had left him unsettled and wouldn't be able to cope with falsities.

Letting his breath out, he said, "I'm confused."

"Confused," she stated blankly, though the look in her eyes demanded that he elaborate.

However, they were never good at talking through things, so instead, he sat there, his mouth agape as he tried to figure out how exactly he could explain that he felt too smitten than to simply sit on the couch with her in a friendly manner. If he wanted to be with her, then he knew that he couldn't come on to her in a brash, sudden way; enough flirtatious comments and uncomfortable leaves had proven that to be true. Though she was doing better and had worked through her troubles as best she could, he knew her history and refused to let her run, not when they could have something so great together.

Then, she moved closer to him, her side flush with his as she curled her legs up over his. He sat there, his body immobilized, his face stunned. As she leaned against him, the blanket tightly yet comfortably wrapped around them, she took the remote into her hand, went to press play on the DVD.

"I can deal with confused," she said.

He needed to force himself to breathe.

She was right next to him - the word _cuddling_ could have been used, but he wasn't about to use it - and he could feel every shift of her body with even more awareness. As she laughed at certain quips throughout the movie, he could feel her muscles move, and when she felt too cold, the air conditioning in the apartment a bit too high in actuality but fairly nice in his opinion, she would come closer, her toes curling next to his, her legs warm on his. It was both unfortunate and fantastic, an absolute pleasure and torture in one. Because she was close to him, he felt flutters throughout his body, his heart beating a little too fast; he was excited to have her there and knew that every fight, every single moment of doubt had all been worth it if it felt that wonderful just to have her next to him. However, he wanted more, to have her lean her forehead against his shoulder, to wrap his arm around her, to kiss her cheek.

Take what you can get, he insisted to himself. No matter how the night went, he needed to hold onto this moment, this delightful and horrible moment, for she was worth it. Oh, goodness, she was _definitely_ worth it.

"I wish they could have had a better ending," Beckett commented as Ah Jong promised to donate his corneas to Jennie. "They were two good characters with chemistry and promise, and offering her a way to gain her sight back? What can compare to that?"

"Well, he _would_ need to be dead in order to give her her sight back," he commented blankly; her body against his was still distracting him in the best of ways.

Why had he said that? He hadn't thought about saying that; the words had simply come out of his mouth. Luckily, she laughed lightly, leaned against him further.

"But they still deserved more," she said. "He loved her. Shouldn't that be enough?"

With his mouth agape, he tried not to be fixated on her comment.


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: Surprise! Here's another one. Happy Friday!_

* * *

"That ending always upsets me."

"Which part?" he joked, all parts of the ending having been upsetting, as he poured her another glass of wine. After all of the hours that had passed, they both had lost the affect of the previous half-glass. She'd wanted more, but he couldn't bring himself to take another sip, couldn't slow any of his senses after she'd...well, after she'd _cuddled_ with him.

"His eyes," she explained as she leaned back against the kitchen counter, her arms folded over her chest. "They attacked his eyes first."

"And he'd wanted to donate his corneas to Jennie," Castle finished the thought.

After the second movie, they'd headed back to the kitchen once more, had taken the time between films to stretch their limbs. He wanted the image of her on the couch with him to permanently stay in his memory, had tried to capture the memory of her slowly untangling herself from him as she'd asked if he wanted to take a quick break between films. Her lithe limbs had moved away from him slowly, as though she, on second thought, would rather stay right there on the sofa for just a little while longer; just thinking about her in that moment made him want to curl up and smile until his lips began to hurt.

"What's the use of that?" she asked, bringing him back to the conversation. "They tore his eyes out before they killed him so that he would know that Jennie could never have his corneas. That isn't something done to shame him in death so much as it is just one more twist of the knife; it's as though simply killing him wasn't enough."

"They wanted to punish him in life and in death," he added. "Ah Jong wouldn't just _die,_ for his body had a purpose after death; after they tore through his eyes, he knew that after death he would merely be a body. He served no purpose anymore."

"That must be the worst way to die," Kate said, nodding to herself, "without a sense of purpose."

Turning back to face her, he passed her the glass, watched as she took it with a small smile, had a sip behind quiet eyes. Sometimes, she was Beckett, the woman he worked with all day and the partner he shared in crime, and though Beckett was beautiful, empowered, and intellectual, he loved the moments when she was Kate, the softer and more nervous side of herself, the part of her that said things like that with a painstaking honesty. Even though Beckett would have put on armor at the sign of vulnerability, Kate had begun to shed that armor in front of him; as she stood there in his kitchen, he watched as she spread her toes on the kitchen floor, as she partially hid her face from behind her glass. Her hair had begun to loosen from the half-up clip, and as she used her free hand to tug her shirt down, he wanted to remember each and every movement, each imperfection that she'd stopped hiding from him. She didn't let people in with ease, so he relished in every piece of herself that she shared.

And how often had she thought of the worst ways to die? Of course, he'd thought of such things as well, being that he metaphorically killed people for a living, but there was never a personal side of those thoughts from him; it was always a matter of what would be worst for a character, not for himself. However, she faced death every day, watched the innocent, the guilty, and everyone in between begin their journey to their final resting place. Her words in the freezer echoed in his mind, how she'd thought she would take a bullet, but now, he wondered how deeply she'd thought about that moment. Had she thought about it in depth, about how old she would be when it happened? When she'd been shot, had some part of her hardly felt surprised?

Against the back of her hand, she yawned, taking him from his thoughts. It was cute, how she closed her eyes and scrunched her nose a little as she did so, and oh, goodness, he needed to stop staring. Watching her yawn? That was definitely within creepy territory.

"Are you tired?" he asked.

"A bit," she said as she checked her watch. "It's two in the morning, after all."

"You have the day off tomorrow, right?"

"Yeah, as always," she said, taking another sip of wine.

"If you want to stop, we can," he said, shrugging. "It's late, so you might as well stay in the guest room."

She gave him a look, said, "Thanks, Castle, but I'm not about to fall asleep on you. This is a movie marathon, and you know what marathons require?"

Her voice had gone from joking and sweet to sultry in a matter of moments, and as she looked him up and down with those tantalizing eyes of hers, he forced himself to take deep breaths.

"What?" he asked, a bit flustered.

She quirked and eyebrow to him, said, "Stamina."

And then she led the way back to the couch.

* * *

In few words, it was a violent film. Hell, Woo had needed to cut more footage than Castle wanted to know about just so that _Hard Target_ could be released as an R-rated movie. Though Castle had a strong stomach and a decent demeanor in the face of gore, he nonetheless felt uneasy as the characters hunted humans. They were quite literally hunting humans. If that wasn't disturbing, then Castle didn't know what was.

However, what put him off most of all was the way that she sat beside him, her body just as close as it had been when they had been sharing the blanket earlier. Now, the throw was spread over them, her leg flush to his, her torso so close to his own that he could feel the warmth of her skin. The emotions were coming to him all over again; though he thought that he would have been prepared for them, he knew without a doubt that he wasn't. Still, his skin felt warm in the best and worst of ways, and his thoughts were short but complete, and though he knew that he couldn't, he wished that he could draw her closer, could wrap her in his arms and kiss her forehead. As people hunted other people. Oddly, he liked how romantic the evening was despite how unromantic the film choices were.

And then, as Chance saved Natasha onscreen, Kate let out a deep sigh, leaned in against him, her head resting on his shoulder. Stilling, he stared straight ahead. Though he was content to let her lead, he felt as though he needed a warning for each of her advances because every one of them had left him like a bug hitting a windshield. In a good way. Oh, goodness, he couldn't think straight, not when she was resting her head on his shoulder. He needed to bring himself back to the current moment, so focusing on the film, he listened in as Chance and Natasha first conversed.

And when Chance, Natasha, and Douvee entered the warehouse of Mardi Gras floats, Castle glanced over to her, his neck stilling while his eyes strained to focus, and surely enough, she was sound asleep. The sheer thought of it made his heart leap and his stomach feel as though it were caving in; he needed to calm himself down already or else she would wake, and then, this feeling of having her there would be far from him again. With her body warm and heavy against his, he felt his mind clear of all the horrid thoughts he'd had throughout the day; instead, his mind filled with her, filled with the scent of her hair and the sounds of her breathing. Though his body felt chilled, he nonetheless had sweat forming on his brow, the depths of his stomach feeling too warm as well. Immobilized, he sat there, the beat of his heart marking time as the film continued beyond them, the screen neglected by their eyes. Closing his eyes as well, he went to lean his head against hers but then strayed; he wouldn't let himself accidentally wake her up, not with even the slightest of movements. Though he thought it selfish, he couldn't bear to let this feeling go, so he glanced back up at what was nearing the end of the film, her warm weight comforting against his side. He could sit like that for a while longer. Hours, maybe. He was willing to test his limits of sitting in one place so long as she was there beside him.

And then, his cell phone began to ring.


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: So I've been, uh, funeral-ing for the entirety of the past week in a place with no internet, only one measly bar of cell signal, and (most of all) no laptop, hence the whole lack of updates. However, I am in The Land of Internet right now, so here's what I was supposed to post on Monday! It's a short one too...I'm so sorry..._

* * *

His phone was on the coffee-table in front of them, and though the ringer was quiet, he nonetheless knew that the sound could wake Kate up. If he wanted to let her sleep, then he needed to silence the alarm, but silencing it required that he moved, and if he moved, she would wake as well. Clenching his teeth, he tried to reach a toe out to take the call, but it was no use. After one more ring, the phone stopped buzzing, so he calmed, looked over to check on Kate.

With her head resting on his shoulder, she slept soundlessly, the lightest of snores coming from her every few moments. Checking the time, he saw that it was edging toward four in the morning; it was hardly a surprise that she was tired. The movie had ended, the DVD returning to its main screen, so the loft felt emptier to him; instead of having comrades in Kate and in the films, he was alone in the apartment, the marathon coming to a close while Kate slept. Should he carry her into the guest bedroom and let her spend the night there? _Could_ he do that even though having her curled up against his side was such a wonderful feeling?

The more rational part of his mind knew that bringing her up to bed would be in both of their best interests - she could have a better night's sleep than one spent on the couch, and he could call back whoever had called - so he knew that he needed to wake her up. However, he didn't want to wake her up immediately, wanted to relish in this closeness just a little longer. Though they'd had their fair share of ups and downs, she seemed ready to take the next step, and to him, the proverbial _next step_ felt more and more enchanting by the moment. How wonderful would it be to have this happen again? Smiling, he looked back down at her, her cheek squashed against his shoulder, her brow furrowed just a bit. His stomach fluttered yet again; she was adorable, and she was right there next to him, and she was _ready_.

Wrapping an arm around her back, he pulled her in closer so that her spine wasn't on as drastic an angle; using his open hand, he brought the blanket up higher over them, wanted to keep her warm. Then, he turned back to look at her and felt temptation creep up on him; he wanted to kiss her. Goodness, he _really_ wanted to kiss her. However, he wasn't about to kiss her in her sleep, not when she wouldn't feel it as well, so he told himself to stop, to calm down and collect himself.

Partially abandoning caution, he leaned down and brought a kiss to her forehead, her skin warm against his lips. He held the kiss there for a moment, then brought his face away from hers. Wishing, he wanted to do that again. And again. And maybe a couple more times. Luckily, she began to stir, her eyes groggy and her body slow-moving, and to his content, she didn't instantly stray from him, as though falling asleep with him hadn't been a mistake; though she moved away, she took her time, stretched her legs before she leaned away from him.

"Hey," he said softly, smoothly. "You seem exhausted. The guest bedroom's all set up, if you'd like to call it a night. I'll just need to get you towels and toiletries."

Rubbing her eyes, she managed, "Okay."

Standing up, he headed for the stairs, went into a linen closet kept in Martha's room in search of towels. He brought the towels - white and fluffy ones that Kate had grown attached to after she'd stayed with Castle during the Ben Conrad case, so attached that, months later at her apartment, Castle had seen that she'd bought herself a set of those same towels - into the hallway bathroom and left them next to the sink. Though he didn't want to explicitly show her that he knew she would need them, he nonetheless left boxes of pads and tampons within view of the towels; no matter how the tables turned, he didn't want her to feel uncomfortable or embarrassed. Heading back to Martha's room, he looked into his mother's drawers, found a pair of black lounge pants - one of few that weren't bedazzled - and left the room. Then, he went into the guest room, the sand-colored walls greyed in the darkness. The room was modest, with only a queen bed done up in blue linens, an oak dresser and chest of drawers, and mirror over the dresser. However, the room was comfortable, decorated with faux flowers and some heirlooms of Castle's grandmother, a brass-handled brush-and-mirror set along with some perfumes, and after her apartment's explosion, Kate had seemed to like the room. He left the pants on the bed and headed back downstairs, looking for a sleep-shirt for her.

As he glanced over to the couch, he saw that Kate was slumped over once more, her chest flat against the couch's cushions, her eyes closed as she slept once more. He couldn't stop a smile from coming to his lips; it was such a picture to see Kate Beckett passed out on his couch, her mouth slightly open, her body simply having given up. When he went into his own bedroom, he weighed the pros and cons of giving her one of his shirts to wear. An obvious pro was that shirts that were too big for someone, Kate being that someone, were always comfortable; that rule was practically universal. However, a con was that she might not want to wear something of his, might not want him to think she was willing to. Damn it, where had his mind gone? Beckett wasn't petty, and a shirt was a shirt; taking a big navy-colored tee from his drawers, he went back to the living room, started to head upstairs. Back in the guest room, he left the shirt with the pants, returned downstairs only to find her slowly standing up from the couch, his movement having woken her.

"Need help getting up the stairs?" he joked with a smug smile; even if she didn't want to face it, she was exhausted, and it was almost endearing to watch her somewhat fight her need to sleep. While part of her was willing to persist onward, another part of her willingly closed her eyes for what she thought would only be a few seconds and then let her fall asleep.

"I think I'll be okay," she said, a sleepy grin on her lips as she walked to the kitchen, where her purse still sat. Picking up the bag, she began to head upstairs.

"I left you some clothes on the bed," he said as she left. "There are towels in the bathroom. If you need anything, just ask."

She nodded, gave, "Okay."

"Goodnight, Beckett."

"Goodnight, Castle."

As she left his view, he sat back down on the couch, sighed as he closed his eyes. Two years beforehand, she'd been staying in that guest room; he thought that someday she would be sleeping in a different room of the loft, but apparently, he was wrong. At least, he was wrong for the moment. However, he could cope with being wrong after how she'd opened herself up to him throughout the night and the week. Whenever Kate Beckett opened up to someone, she did so slowly, and though he was as impatient as a child on Christmas morning, he could wait for her a little bit longer. She was worth the wait; he knew that for sure.

Reaching out to his cell phone on the coffee-table, he pushed thoughts of her out of his mind and went to call back whoever had called earlier. Kate could wait until morning; whoever had called could not, especially once he saw that the caller had been Alexis.


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N: Surprise, here's another! This one's a little longer. Let's hope this makes up for the fact that I've missed a few days..._

* * *

There was something that enchanted her about beds.

Her bed, his bed, hotel room beds, sleeping mats for camping, they all made her think. Looking at a bed could tell her so much about a person, for a person's bed was a sacred place, one of few places where a person could fully let their guard down and self-comfort their way to unconsciousness. In order for that self-comfort to occur, some required books while others merely closed their eyes. Though seeing a person's luxuries in bed - mattress toppers, threadcounts, and fluffy pillows - said something about a person, a person's bare minimum of a bed said even more; under certain circumstances, what _couldn't_ someone shed in regard to sleep? Could a child go without a stuffed animal or security blanket, an adult without a prescription pill, someone of any age without a book to read? Beds spoke multitudes about people, so she found them enticing.

Though Castle's guest room was simple, she enjoyed the room nonetheless; as she turned the lights on, she remembered just how greatly she had admired the comfortable color of the room, the relaxing blue hues next to oak wood. Leaving her purse at the foot of the bed, she sat down on the right side of the mattress, fell back so that her spine rested along the bed, her legs dangling off, her arms outstretched above her head. She stretched there, extended her body from her fingertips to toes and then relaxed; she was glad that he'd offered her the room for the night, for traveling home alone at such a time when she was exhausted hardly sounded like a good idea.

Then, her mind was flooded with the proverbial _him_ , and as she closed her eyes and furrowed her brow, she wished that she hadn't brought Castle up, wished that she could go to sleep in peace. No matter how she tried to look at it, she had ruined the night; after he'd asked her to join him, she figured that she would go watch movies with him, stay up all night, make breakfast with him in the morning, and kiss him silly on her way out of his apartment. In fact, she'd had a multitude of imaginings, some chaste and others downright naughty, but all of them had ended at least in kissing. However, it was kissing that they would actually talk about, kissing that would change things when they next went to work together, kissing as consummation. She was supposed to be flirtatious and sexy and worth the wait on that night; however, she'd instead left him confused as she...well, _cuddled_ with him and then fell asleep on top of him. Though she'd come there with the intentions of sleeping in his room, she was going to bed in the guest room instead. No matter how she thought about it, she'd failed.

She was trying to put herself out there as best she could, but suddenly, she was clumsy and awkward and nervous around him. Maybe that's just because this is important to you, she wondered but brushed it off; this was all too much thinking, especially when she was so tired. Forcing herself off of the bed, she stood up, saw the clothes he'd left for her, a pair of women's lounge pants and - _great_ \- one of his shirts. She didn't want his scent to remind her all night of exactly what she'd missed out on; that kind of torture was something she couldn't take after how she'd ruined their night together. As Burke had told her, Castle wouldn't be wrong if he felt tired of waiting, and she couldn't bear to let him stray though she was trying to show that she was ready for more, much more. And a John Woo movie night? Maybe that was where they'd gone wrong; there was nothing remotely romantic about those movies. It was hard to find moments to make out during movies in which massive deaths occurred. Why couldn't they have watched _Twilight_ instead?

Oh, goodness, had she _actually_ just thought that?

Needing sleep, she shucked away her jeans, put on the pants he'd given her, and took her bra off beneath the long-sleeve she'd been wearing; she wasn't going to use the shirt he'd lent her. Then, she took the toothbrush she kept in her purse - many a late night at the precinct had taught her to carry one - and walked out of the bedroom, headed for the bathroom. In the morning, she would shower, so for then, she simply brushed her teeth, splashed some warm water on her face in hope of taking off any residual makeup. She glanced around, and thankfully, what must've been Alexis' stash of hygiene products was present enough, so she took what she needed, went to head to bed.

Crawling beneath the sheets, she tried to stay in the middle of the bed, her back pressed against the soft mattress. She took deep breaths, wanted to calm herself down; now that her mind was so full, she doubted she would be able to sleep. However, she could remember some relaxation exercises that Burke had taught her to do during moments of panic, so she breathed in for a count of four, held her breath for a count of seven, let it out for a count of eight. She closed her eyes, needed to rest.

As she fell asleep, she dreamt of being in Castle's arms once more, where she'd fallen asleep so safely only minutes beforehand.

* * *

Waking with a jolt, she sat up in bed, the dream all too familiar. She had been lying near-dead on the grass in that cemetery, only Castle wasn't looming over her, his hand at the back of her head, his voice telling her that he loved her; instead, her mother was there, bloody marks covering the places where she had been stabbed.

"Kate," her mother had whispered, the back of her hand resting on her daughter's forehead.

And then she'd woken up, as she had so many times before, but this time, she wasn't going to ball herself up and shake and cry until her phone rang, the precinct alerting her that there had been a murder. Doctor Burke had taught her how to cope, and though her hands were shaking, she nonetheless used them to ground herself. Placing her palms on the bed and balling the sheets in her hands, she forced herself to remember what was real and what wasn't. Right then, she was in bed, the guest room's bed, and she hadn't been shot right then, and her mother wasn't dying alongside her. Taking a deep breath, she tried to calm down her beating heart, and though quieting her mind took a painful and exhausting amount of effort, she knew that she needed to do it. Recovery was a challenge, but it was more worthwhile than she could imagine, so she forced herself onward.

For the most part, the grounding helped, but she wanted to get up, wanted a change of scenery before she could go back to sleep. Sometimes, she would fold clothes or clean up her home after a dream like that one or after a panic attack, but she wasn't at home; what could she do instead? Maybe you can just go back to bed, she thought, but she wouldn't be able to sleep if she didn't fully recover from the dream, so she stood up, started to walk out of the room, decided to make herself tea. The procedure of such a process was comforting, and because she wasn't in a coffee mood, tea would have to suffice.

Being in someone else's home at night was strange for her, especially when it was the home of someone whose relationship with her was undefinable; she knew this apartment better than she knew that of her most recent ex-boyfriend, yet Castle was supposedly just a friend...who she wanted to be more than a friend with. Even to her, their definition was confusing. Sighing, she pushed that to the back of her mind, tried to calm the remaining nerves she had.

She went into the kitchen cabinet, took out a mug. Looking at the cup's side, she saw _Richard Castle_ sprawled across in black letters, and she smiled, rolled her eyes at that ego of his. She walked over to the cupboard, opened it up in search of tea, something relaxing. Though the loft was dark, she nonetheless found some chamomile, a fancy kind that came in a tin rather than a box. Filling the mug with tap water, she brought it into the microwave - she didn't want to search for a kettle - and started to heat the water up.

As she sat down at the island table, she glanced toward the couch, where that blanket they'd shared, along with their wine glasses, still sat. How simple it should have been, to come to his home on what she'd thought had been a date and end their time together with a kiss shared at the very end of their final film; she'd pictured the night going as such, had imagined leaving his home with a smile, as well as the taste of him, on her lips. However, she was alone in his kitchen while he slept on so close to her yet so very far away.

The microwave dinged, so she took the mug out, placed a teabag inside of it, and walked with the cup over to the window, where the bright city stood in front of the rising sun. Looking out at SoHo, she saw cars moving down the streets, lights on in apartments, just a few of the other lives within the city. Though she still felt residually anxious, she took a deep breath in, willed those feelings away. As she'd told Castle, she was doing better now; those dreams and panic attacks, though they never became easier, had become manageable for her. Though she still felt nervous because of them, they no longer scared her. She took a sip of her tea, almost ready to head back to bed. Even though the night hadn't gone as she'd wished it would go, she couldn't fret over it; maybe she could try again in the morning, could explain further that she was ready.

Maybe-

In seconds, the door to the loft came open, and all of Kate's nerves returned; who could be there at that hour? It was too early for anyone to come by. Tensing, she stared down the door, her mind filled with panic. However, Castle and his daughter were the only people who entered, Alexis being propped up a bit on her father's arm. Once Castle had closed the front door and wandered farther into the apartment, he paused, saw where Kate stood. Hadn't he been in the apartment? Then, she noticed that his daughter looked off, and she could sense it: alcohol. Alexis had gotten drunk at the graduation party.

The three stood there uncomfortably, all acknowledging the existence of the others but not wanted to comment on it. Taking her chance, Alexis furrowed her brow and looked over at Kate, whose eyes were wide with embarrassment.

"Gram's pants," Alexis asked, her words slurred and hazy, "why are you wearing Detective Beckett?"


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N: Here's a little cure for your Monday blues! Enjoy._

* * *

"Can you drink this?"

Castle sat a glass of water down on the island table, where Alexis was sitting. Apparently, she was still tipsy and relaxed; the downfall likely wouldn't come for a little while longer, or so Kate thought. She'd been standing there, her mug in her hands, the two Castles a long distance away while she looked on. Since he had come through the door, Rick had barely acknowledged her, and thankfully, Alexis hadn't pestered on as to why Kate was at the loft.

After Alexis took a long drink from the glass, Castle looked over to Kate, who greatly wished she'd stayed in the guest room. He patted his daughter on the back, then walked over to speak with Beckett.

"Would you mind heading upstairs?" Castle asked her quietly. "I don't want her to have any wrong impressions."

She nodded blankly, wished that they _could_ be doing what he didn't want his daughter to think they'd been doing. Though she could've left with ease normally, he was wearing comfortable clothes and smelling so much like himself - maybe with some cologne thrown in - and she wanted to ask him _take me back to bed_ and be held in his warm arms until she fell asleep once more. However, his daughter needed him, so she retreated back to the guest room, not daring to look behind herself as she went.

Sitting back down on the guest room's bed, she took another sip of her tea, let the heat of it warm her up. Now, her residual nervousness wasn't a concern; instead, she had other things to occupy her mind, all things that involved him. She wanted to have him next to her, to have him wrap his arm around her and kiss her forehead as he wished her a good night's sleep. Though she knew it was immature, she wanted that so badly that she figured she wouldn't be able to sleep until she had it.

From the hallway, she heard the shuffling of footsteps, figured that Castle was bringing his daughter to bed. Remembering her high school graduation, she recalled the party she'd been at that night, when she'd worn a dress that had made her feel like both a rebel and a queen. That night, she'd fallen asleep on a friend's couch, a pile of people all around her. Her hair had fallen down in a cascade of pins and hairspray, and a friend of hers had passed out with his mouth on her breast; by morning, they all had been so hungover that they'd stayed in that position for a long time. Smiling at the memory, she wondered if Alexis would have a similar experience in the morning. Minus the teenage boy falling asleep on her breast. Kate hoped that there weren't any teenage boys in the apartment.

Then, two soft knocks came at her door, so schooling her features, she gave a quiet, "Come in."

Cautiously, Castle entered the room, the bedside lamp illuminating only part of his features while corners of the room were left in the dark. He looked exhausted, as they both were.

"Hey," he said, stepping toward her and shutting the door behind himself.

"Hey," she echoed.

A funny feeling developed in her stomach, one that told her that right then could be a terrifying but pivotal point. It was the feeling she had had right before she'd gotten her tonsils removed, when she'd been able for recognize that by the Tuesday of the next week, she would have one fewer of her internal organs inside her body; she knew that after a certain event that was so close, things would change, yet she was petrified as to how those things would change despite their inevitability. Of course, her first instinct was to escape, to wait for a moment when they weren't both exhausted, but he was blocking the door, so she couldn't get up and get out, couldn't wait any longer.

As he sat down at the foot of the bed while she sat at the head, she looked down, tried to remain calm. She could get through this. Hell, she was strong enough to survive until this moment, so she _better_ get through this.

She moved in closer toward him.

"Alexis called while you were asleep downstairs," Castle explained, facing forward. "I figured that you would sleep through the time I took to pick her up, but I guess I was wrong."

"Yeah," was all she could offer, her gaze straight ahead.

"What got you up?" he asked, glancing to her. "You'd seemed exhausted before I left."

Turning to him, she met his gaze, saw how casually he meant the question. She doubted he would expect what the truth happened to be, but nonetheless, she needed to share it. Though she could lie and run, she knew that lying would only hurt her in the end. No matter how hard it would be, she needed to bare it all.

Upon sensing her nervousness, he inched closer, left only a chaste distance between them. She took a deep breath.

"After the shooting, I've had recurring nightmares," she explained. She'd always hated using that word, _nightmares_ , to describe the dreams, for nightmares were dreams that children had about the Boogeyman or about the monsters under the bed; children, however, didn't dream about being hunted and gunned down. Then again, the Boogeyman and all of his friends held threats toward the children who dreamt of them, so maybe her nightly terrors weren't so far from nightmares. "Tonight, I had one, so I was awake when you returned."

She'd held his glance throughout the statement, something that surprised her. Taking her words in, he let his face visibly soften, so she continued, tried her best to let him understand.

"At first, they took me over, the dreams," she explained, nodding for emphasis. "I would wake up from them, and I would be a wreck for the rest of the night as a result, no matter how early the dream had occurred. Once, I even called my therapist at three in the morning because I'd been panicking without relief for hours. Though they were impossible to manage at first, I've learned how to cope with them to the point where they've become less frequent and easier to deal with. They haven't necessarily gotten easier, but I've gotten stronger."

Pausing, she looked down but forced her gaze back up. She could do this; after all the regret she'd faced, she dared not back out.

"At first, the thought of having someone else see me like that was...it was impossible to imagine, Castle," she admitted, her eyes holding his glance. "I couldn't subject anyone to it, not when it left me feeling so weak and hurt. But now..."

She tried and failed to find words to explain what she meant. Momentarily, she struggled, her mouth moving around sentences she couldn't translate from her mind's dialog to their conversation. From there, she brought her gaze down to her folded hands, kept her eyes down.

"I don't think I would mind having someone there during one of them anymore," she managed, nodding to herself.

Though she wanted to look up to him, wanted to know exactly what was going through his mind, she couldn't bring herself to move. Then again, what was she expecting? She doubted that he would reject her, not after all that had happened between them, yet she nonetheless felt lingering doubt take her over. No matter what she said, he wasn't obliged to take the next step with her. That was the problem in her relationships, the fact that they could never be within her full and total control, and that lack of control made her cover her mouth with her left hand in an attempt to hide herself, made her body feel tense all over.

Then, he reached over, brought her palm away from her face; as she looked up toward him, she couldn't read his expression, could only stare on slack-jawed as he brought her fingers down to her hip, left them there. Her eyes erratically went from his hand to his eyes to his lips, and though she went to speak, she couldn't find words; as he brushed pieces of hair away from her face, she was stunned. Then, he moved in closer, their hips brushing, and with both of his palms holding her cheeks gingerly, he brought his lips to hers, left her surprised as he kissed her. Her eyes were still open; her mouth was tense against his; her eyes widened as she began to fully fathom that _holy shit, he's kissing me_. As she closed her eyes, she kissed him back, the moment leaving her thoughtless in the best of ways. It was like meditating, how her focus was so greatly on the way it felt to have him wrap his mouth around hers once more in an undeniably chaste movement, like a first-date kind of kiss; because her mind was so occupied with one thing, she couldn't think of much else.

However, she was brought back to her senses when she tried to find a place to put her hands. He had brought his to her cheeks, so she couldn't bring those there - that would just feel strange and physically uncomfortable - and though she could bring hers to his chest, she didn't want him to think that she was trying to push him away. Finally deciding, she laughed lightly, a smile out loud at the stupidity of her thought process, while she brought her palms to the back of his shoulders and pulled him closer. As she kissed him once more, she knew that every misstep she'd taken throughout the night, all of their flaws in communication, had been worthwhile and necessary to arrive at that moment, that truly special moment. Taking a breath in, she tried to memorize every aspect of the moment, wanted to keep it in her mind for as long as she could.

He pulled away slowly, cautiously - of course, the kiss had been a risky move, but she figured after the way she'd reacted to it, he would've at least foregone a little bit the carefulness - and simply looked at her, his expression readable to her now; this was all he wanted, all and more. When he held her gaze, brought his hands from her face to her hips, she could see that he felt honored just to be able to kiss her, to bring her so close to him and know that she was ready to take the next step. She could understand that he wanted to let her lead where they went in their partnership but also that he wanted to lead at times as well. As he brought his lips into a grand smile, she knew what he was thinking, that the kiss was as good for him as it had been for her.

Bringing her thumb to his cheek and caressing him there, she held his gaze and softly said, "Do that again."


End file.
